


Scenes from Intermission

by prieta



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 15:57:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14548242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prieta/pseuds/prieta
Summary: Things that did not happen to Peggy before she leaves Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce.





	Scenes from Intermission

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, I thought Mad Men should have ended after Peggy left. Will be updated for length.

Peggy remembers her hospital stay with a feverish vividness. Waking up like a diver surfacing from water, the first sensation being the bitter taste in her mouth, her lungs sore as if waterlogged. She doesn’t recall what she first says to Don to prompt his response, only remembers him first sitting motionless, looking at her, mouth hard and implacable, then suddenly he is leaning towards her, imposingly close. Her eyes water in protest at her attempts to focus, she can’t make out his face behind the bright halo of the hospital lights, but she remembers the gritty smell of cigarette smoke and the musk of his expensive cologne, his firm hand on her arm.  

“This doesn’t have to happen.” Don-as-God says to her, intently. “This moment. These past few days. Forget them. Erase them.” 

And Peggy, half-dazed, will think to herself that he must have done this before. With such fervor as someone else might have used while repeating a prayer, begging for forgiveness. She wonders how many times he must have said the same thing to himself.

But that thought, conveniently, will slip from her mind before she is able to process it, and will only be dredged up again years later, when it is far too late.

-

The new haircut makes her neck feel cold, and it itches her neck distractingly. Peggy considered hiding it, had even picked some out scarves from the discount section of the department store down the street from SCDP. When her mother first sees her haircut, she had put one hand, comically, to her mouth, whispered a scandalized “Margaret!” and that was all the motivation Peggy needed to push the scarf idea aside.

She flips through a stack of hair magazines on her tiny kitchen table, nearly swallows a bobby pin whole, burns the side of her neck when an errant curler pops open. She dabs at her neck with concealer in the bathroom mirror, trying not to look at herself because she knows that half of her hair is still flat as a board and she’s flushing. She pulls at her hair disinterestedly, hyper-aware of the fact that her robe is approaching the color of dishwater and she doesn’t have any makeup on.

She thinks to herself, I bet Joan’ _s never looked like this in her life_. The secretaries used to say that Joan was born with red lipstick on, and she had to put on makeup to cover it. She thinks about Joan, her constantly cinched waist, the golden highlights in her hair. She think about Joan’s face when she walked in to see her driver’s license staring back at her, blown up on the walls. Someone had come in and, fittingly, highlighted her birthdate in a garish red lipstick. It had stood up for a day before anyone took it down, lipstick and all.

During Monday meeting, Kevin tells Peggy the style suits her.

-

Don, utilizing his preternatural ability to catch people unguarded, comes onto Peggy the week after she stops expecting it.

It is late enough at night that they have beaten even Pete’s brown-nosing attempts to leave the office at the same time as Don. They are both a little off their game, because they’ve spent the past 20 minutes seriously debating a ridiculous commercial for GloCoat which included an anthropomorphized shoe.

Don is sitting at his desk, feet in the air, spinning a pen and watching Peggy half-heartedly doodling cans on a notepad she has propped on her knees. She thinks he’s going to show her something when he beckons for her, but he puts one hands on her waist, instead, pulling gently, throwing her off-balance.

“Don!” One arm lands on his shoulder in reflex, but she’s not pushing him away, yet.

“Peggy,” he replies, challenging. He looks up at her. His hand is large and warm under the wool of her skirt.

"What about Dr. Miller?” Peggy asks, half-heartedly. He doesn’t respond, not that she expected him to, but instead strokes the curve of her hip his thumb, casually.

Peggy had just seen the smartly dressed doctor last week, striding down the halls with her large earrings sparkling in the office lights, thin cigarette perched on one gloved hand, and somehow that thought comforts her. It’s late enough in the evening that the severe angle of Don’s hair is just beginning to admit defeat, about to become an inky mess splayed out over his forehead. Peggy wants to push her fingers through it, and she considers the come-on permission of sorts, so she does.

“I’m expecting this not to affect our working relationship. I’m not your secretary anymore.”

Don’s lips twitch upward. “Well, you definitely cost us more than that, now.”

The scotch muddling her brain dulls her thoughts, but it doesn’t stop the needle of irritation that runs down her back. Behind Don’s shoulder, in the office across from them, there’s a man bent over, speaking intently into his phone, posture tense. He's barely an inch tall from this view, probably has his windows closed, but she wonders if he might look up and see them. Hear them. She's closer to Don that she might have ever been before and on second inspection she can see creases under the armpit of his crisp white shirt, a smudge of something or other on his sleeve. The hair under her fingers is crunchy, slightly damp.

“I’m not going to cry about this to my lady friends tomorrow,” she feels the need to tell him.

“I’m sure you won't,” Don says, glibly, maddeningly. “We’re both adults here, Peggy.”

He’s still got his feet up on his desk. With that expression on his face, he could have easily been conducting a meeting or sitting at a bar sipping on a rye on the rocks. It makes her skin feel tight. Before, Peggy sometimes wondered if she could just get close enough, she could see the record player he had taped to his back, dispensing carefully rehearsed pitches from underneath his collar. Maybe she could siphon some of that golden voice out from under his skin and dab it on her wrists like perfume.

So, because she remembers those thoughts, and because she is a week out from wanting this, she kisses him. He kisses back, aggressively. His other hand lands on her hips. The inside of his mouth tastes like alcohol, cheap lo mein, nothing magical about it at all.

-

There’s a spot of vomit on the the pocket of Don's deflated linen shirt, and Peggy tries to focus on it as she pats, futilely, at the blood on Don’s lip and chin. She had never been the type to get hurt as a kid-too obedient maybe? Or maybe just too timid- and the sight of red blooming from his split lip, gleaming nearly blue in the dim office lights, unsettles her.

If this were any other time, if there had been anyone else around, she knows that Don wouldn’t have let her touch him. Would have waved her away, maybe made a show about pulling out a first aid kit and sewing his own lip up using the reflection from his flask. Instead, this version of Don just huffs tiredly and resigns himself to lying on the couch and letting Peggy press balled up Kleenexes to his face. She’s kneeling over him, and his breath, still sour, barely brushes against her forehead.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” She tells him, more to break the silence than anything.

Don cracks open one eye, squints up at her. “I was stopping a criminal from committing vandalism.” 

_No_ , Peggy wants to tell him. _You were trying to defend my honor_. Peggy had been working with Don long enough that she knows this was just one of those weird thing about him- that he doled out his kindness like the temperamental cat that lived in Peggy’s alleyway did, which was- sporadically and often at inopportune times, jumping to denial in the same breath.

She doesn’t tell him this, of course. Instead she says, “You’d make a shit cop.”

Don’s got one forearm thrown over his his face now, but she can see the smile that twists his mouth up. He doesn’t say anything, but he lets her climb on the couch with him. His shoulder bumps against her thigh companionably and they’re both out like a light in the quiet office dark.

-

“- admire you greatly,” Megan says to her. She looks at Peggy expectantly, as if anticipating praise for her attempted moment of bonding. Girl power, as Stan would say.

Peggy crosses her arms, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. She wants to lean away, but stops herself. They are sitting kitty corner to each other on the Creative table for their impromptu meeting. Megan has been fidgeting, maddeningly, with the the chiffon end of her sleeve for the past 2 hours. The front of her blouse is adorned with eye catching tulips- it’s a pretty shirt.

“We both do,” Megan continues, earnestly.

“I’m really not sure sure if I could do it justice.” Peggy says finally.

Sensing victory, Megan presses. “I couldn’t think of anyone else Don would want speaking for him.”

“Birthday’s really aren’t my thing-“

“You're Peggy Olson,” here Megan smiles, showing a slice of teeth and a wedge of pink, sensing her victory. Disgruntingly endearing. “I know you’ll make it spectacular.”

Her hand reaches out and breaches the space between them, unexpectedly intimate. She tries to touch Peggy’s hand, still tucked under her armpit, settles for forearm. Her long fingers are manicured a lurid orange, and they clash with the plaid of Peggy’s dress. Her spidery mascara sweeps over her eyes as she glances down, suddenly shy again, to gather the files spread before them. Last week, in the bathroom between meetings, Megan had leaned over the sink to touch up her impeccable eyeliner and confessed to Peggy that she always wanted to be an actress. She lisped her S’s in a barely noticeable  _suss_. She was French for God’s sake.

Peggy had spent some time trying to piece out what it was that could connect Megan to Betty, Don’s semi-fictitious other wife, other than looks. She realizes in this moment that it is this- this weird childishness in both of them. Peggy had the strange feeling that they must spend an inordinate amount of time waiting, maybe fussing over their lipstick color in the mirror, changing between pieces of two different outfits. Stealing quick glances at a closed door, anticipating its opening. She watches Megan walk off, her heels clacking against the tiles.

-

“But you have to tell me one thing.” Don is not looking at her, is staring down at his hands, but from her vantage point she can see the wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Why?”

This question throws her off guard. She hadn’t been expecting that line of thought, had been working towards a well-rehearsed-but-warm farewell- maybe  _see you on the other side_  or  _don’t be a stranger_. She sucks a breath in, opening her mouth, anticipating a short, polite response coming out.

Instead she says this: “When I first started working here, I would have been happy if you even remembered my name. If you told me I could have been a copywriter, I would have laughed at you.”

“I’m not that person anymore, Don. But in these offices, I still see her. Every day.” Peggy wants to wince at the earnestness in her own voice. It’s unprofessional. Too much. It makes Don, finally raise his head. His eyes are pale, slightly bloodshot, and serious. 

There’s finality looming in the air between them, only cut through by the pop of champagne bottles outside the door, muffled cheers. Don pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, suddenly tired. He says: “Don’t worry about your two weeks. There are plenty of freelancers out there. I’ll get by.”

“Alright,” Peggy replies, feeling awkward.

She’s already at the door when he calls out, behind her. “Goodbye, Peggy.”

“Goodbye, Don.” She responds, turning, and means it. She doesn’t look back.

—


End file.
